Chapter 13 #2
It involves trolling alleys and rougher sections, and a lot of people watching near the water.
I find a cafe with a good view of a busy, crowded street clogged with tourists doing their shopping and sightseeing before the overnight ferry to the mainland leaves.
I sip sparkling water and watch the crowds for a good hour before I spot what I'm looking for, and even then, it feels too good to be true.
So I watch some more, until I'm certain of what I'm seeing.
Here we go.
I peel a few twenties off the stack and keep them cupped in my palm, leave the cafe, and follow the individual I’ve been watching.
He's a younger guy, tall and thin with a long black ponytail and a struggling beard.
He's leaning casually on the trunk of a low-slung two-door sports sedan with tinted windows, custom exhaust, a big spoiler, and shiny chrome rims. The advertisement, clearly, is the same the world over.
He's smoking a cigarette and browsing his phone as I approach; he sees me and flicks the butt away in a scattering of orange sparks. "Ehi, ti serve qualcosa?" he mutters at me.
"English?" I respond.
He gives a very Italian shrug. "Eh. A little." He gives a look around. “You are looking for…something?" The pause is intentional and significant—indicating that I’m on the right track, at least.
This is stupid. So very stupid. But here I go, idiot that I am.
"Uh, yeah. But not, um…drugs."
He laughs. "Then why you come to me?"
"Because if you can find drugs, you can find other stuff."
This has his attention. He digs in his hip pocket and shows me a glimpse of a little baggie of cannabis. "You want this? Okay. What else you want? Maybe not, okay?"
"I need to get to Rome. Fast."
He snorts again, fishes a soft pack of cigarettes from a back pocket, and lights a smoke with a click of a Zippo. “Is a ferry, okay?" He points. “Just there. It goes at…" he checks an expensive watch. "Undici." He flashes five fingers at me, then five again, and then one. "Bad English, sorry."
"Better than my Italian,” I say. “Look, I know there's a ferry. But I don’t have a passport. And I sort of need to avoid attention, if you know what I mean."
"No passaporto?"
“No."
"No Carabinieri?"
"Definitely not. Claro que no. Shit, that's Spanish."
"Abbastanza vicini. I understand."
He scratches his chin with the cigarette-holding hand. "No ferry, no passaporto. Only you?"
"No, me and my…um, girlfriend."
"Hai una ragazza, hey?" He grins. "And you need a ship to Roma on the secret?"
“On the secret, yeah."
“Okay."
"You can do it?"
"No me. My uncle. But you pay, okay?"
“How much?"
Another of those shrugs. "I don' know. Maybe…" he scratches his jaw with the same thumb again, smoke curling in his eyes. "Cinquecento."
"Five hundred?" I say, guessing at the translation—I know a bit of Spanish, enough to make a decent guess.
"Sì.”
That's a lot of money, and almost half of what we have. But to get to Rome on the down low…
"Three hundred."
His eyes light up. "You bargain? Buono, buono! Americans, you always just pay. I say a big number. Okay!" He chuckles like this is hysterical. "Four-fifty. No questions. No carabinieri. And a very long boat ride."
"Three-fifty."
"Four hundred. No less." He lifts his chin at me, grinning. "You need. I do not. I only agree because I like you. Hai due palle così!” He makes big cups with both hands near his groin in another very Italian gesture.
"Fine, okay." I fish out a pair of hundreds without showing the whole wad. "Half now, half when we get to Rome." He nods, reaching for the cash, but I pull it back. "Where and when?"
"Where you are staying, grande palle?" I tell him the name of the place, and he nods. "Ah, okay. I know this place. Stasera, mezzanotte. I come to you. Okay?"
I frown. "Mezza…midnight?"
He shrugs, inclines his watch toward me and taps the 12. "Stasera, mezzanotte."
"Tonight at midnight."
"Okay, yes, tonight at midnight. I come to your lodging, show you to my tio's boat." His gaze goes sharp and hard, then. "No Carabinieri. You and your ragazza. No other person."
"Same to you. You and your uncle."
Something occurs to him, then. "Sei nei guai?"
"What?"
"No Carabinieri? No passoporto? You are…merda. Trouble? You have troubles?"
"Oh. Honestly, yes. But not the police."
His eyes scan me, and he frowns. Before I can stop him, he tugs up the hem of my shirt, revealing the tactical vest. Which, as Story predicted, is hot as hell and chafey as fuck.
He just laughs. "Sì, sei nei guai." He taps the vest over my chest with a knuckle. "But no police, hey? I don't know what problems you are having, but me and my tio, we don' want any of it."
I don't dare mention Pugli's name. Either it won’t mean shit to him or it will; either way, it stands to reason he’d just take my money and leave us stranded here. Or worse.
"Nah," I lie. “Nothing like that. We lost our luggage, and we're running from her parents."
He just laughs, clearly not believing me. "Okay, American."
"Hey, it's almost the truth, and you really don't want to know the actual story."
He holds up his hands, palms out. "No, no. No say to me. I don' want to know. Ho già abbastanza per conto mio." His eyes flick away from me, and he juts his chin at me. "Stasera. Mezzanotte. Your lodging. Now you go. I have business to do."
I take the hint and saunter off as casually as I can; I pass the pharmacy on the way back—or whatever they call it here.
Drug store? Chemist? I pop in and let my feet carry me to the, um, family planning aisle, wondering if I'm getting ahead of myself here.
Best to be safe, right? I grab a box and a few other needful, easily transportable items, cash out, and then make one more stop before I return to the hostel: dinner.
While we were in the lobby waiting, I read part of one of the takeaway menus, which advertised "American-style cheeseburgers," and the restaurant in question happens to be on my route back.
I carry the bags upstairs and tap on the door; there's a rustling, and then a very, very faint click. "Who is it?"
"Fred Rogers," I answer. "Let me in, Ethel."
The door swings open inward and then closes behind me, revealing Story clad in her panties and bra and nothing else, looking sleepy.
"Hey, you," she says, leaning to kiss me like we've been a pair for years. "You were gone a long time. I got sleepy."
I cast a hungry gaze over her semi-nude form. "I see that. And hot."
"It's nice when the breeze is going, but otherwise, it's stuffy as heck in here." She sniffs, nose wriggling. "Cheeseburgers?"
I hand her the takeaway bag. "Yes ma'am. And fries, and ketchup. No ranch, though. I asked and they didn’t know what I was talking about."
"Oh, no. That's not a thing outside the states. The USVI are American enough that it's easily available down there. Or…over there, I suppose, from here."
She's already got a plastic clamshell open and pops a fry into her mouth, groaning. "Aw, heck, baby. You win. This is the best. French fries in my mouth, thank you sweet baby Jesus.”
I can't help but laugh. "You really like fries, huh?"
"You have no idea. If anything except genetics has kept my ass this big, it's the tacos I mentioned, and French fries. I just can't help myself."
The "baby" is getting me. "Now I know the way to your heart, huh? Tacos and French fries?"
She widens her eyes. "Not even a joke." She eyes the other bags. "What else did you get?"
I save the pharmacy bag for last, and hand her the stack of clothes I got for her. “Best I could do. I saved the receipt, and the shop isn't too far. But if you do want to exchange, we'd have to go soon, before they close, because we won't be here tomorrow."
“You found us a ride?"
"I did."
She pops another fry into her mouth as she shakes open the pale blue shirt, holds it up to her torso, and nods.
"Good. Can’t go wrong with a plain old solid color tee.
And it's a V-neck. I like the color. Good job.
" The hoodie is next, a baggy forest green pullover hoodie made from thin, athleisure material rather than thick cotton.
"Big enough that it'll hide the vest, and I like the color and fabric.
Two for two." She kisses me, and then eats another fry.
"You're really batting a thousand so far, babe. "
“Now for the real test," I say. "I had to sort of visualize you and hope."
"Good thing you've got a lot of practice visualizing me, huh?"
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Good thing."
She laughs as she steps into the jeans and does that wiggle-into-tight-jeans dance that I’ve always found so unbearably fucking erotic for reasons I couldn't explain. When she does it? Jesus, I’m sprung.
And she notices. "I'm putting on clothes, Kills," she says, her eyes on my tightening zipper.
I shrug. "Can't help that you turn me on doing totally normal things."
Her expression is equal parts melty and sweet.
"You're killin' me, Killy." She sucks in her belly and fastens the button fly, tugs up the zipper, and then relaxes, twists to look at her backside over her shoulder, stuffs her hands in the hip pockets and then the back ones, uses the belt loops at her hips to tug them a bit higher with another shimmy.
"Well hot damn, Killian." Clad in the jeans and bra, she stares up at me with an extraordinarily complicated expression.
"How did you manage to find a pair of jeans that fit me this freaking well? "
I shrug. "No clue." I stare at her ass as she twists and turns, does knee raises to test the extent of the stretch. "But they look great on you."
She unbuttons the jeans and wriggles out of them, folds them, and sets the folded stack of new clothing on the old-ass chair in the corner. "You know what'd look even better on me?"
"Nothing?" I say, grinning.
She leans into me and hooks a finger in each belt loop on either side of my fly. "I like that answer too, but I was gonna say you."
I clear my throat and snag the pharmacy bag. "On that particular note." I hand it to her. "I got a few things."